


Come to me now and rest your head

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Anxiety, Bucky likes National Geographic, Domesticity, Headaches & Migraines, Helpful Sam Wilson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovery, Remix, Romance on the back burner, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Steve is always bringing food, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting, actually because food makes everything better, ca:tws compliant, idk why, in my headcanon the Bartons only have 2 kids, kind of, not quite CA:CW compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-04 09:09:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11552043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: The beginning of Bucky and Steve's life back together, as told in a year's worth of rough holidays._______________________________________________________________________________________________Contains remixes of Stand my ground, face my fears; Wait for tomorrow; and Stay with me, we'll take the night (and hopefully places them in the chronology of my headcanon)





	1. Day After Thanksgiving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat/gifts).



> Aaaaaaaand, it's finished earlier than expected. Because I'm excited and keeping up my writing schedule even though I'm on vacation. Don't expect anything else, though. Commence hiatus.
> 
> This is long, but most of the chapters are short. Some are way shorter than others, but I'm an inherent failure at consistency.
> 
> I loved writing this. I hope you love reading it. I hope it's not terribly repetitive. I feel like it's a very real look at the life of someone struggling.
> 
> Title from Our House by Crosby, Stills, and Nash
> 
> Trigger warnings in the tags. Spoiler alert for most of my other fics.
> 
> Though this collection takes place over the course of a year, it's not necessarily within the limits of any specific year. Days of the week are NOT consistent with any given year's holidays (I didn't even bother to check). If that messes with you, I recommend you don't check either.
> 
> And Cat, you know who you are, and you are fantastic.
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr @Builder051 (It's a lovely sickfic blog).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky arrives.
> 
> True to the fanon, it's raining.

The first night Bucky comes back to Steve, it’s the day after Thanksgiving.  Of course, Bucky has no idea what day it is.  He just knows he’s so tired and so cold and his head’s been aching on and off for the past four or five months, and it might be a little worse tonight. 

 

Bucky knocks on the door of the townhouse.  He hopes Steve will come quickly.  It’s raining, and though Bucky’s not drenched, he’s a certain amount of damp that’s adding significantly to his teeth-chattering discomfort.

 

He hopes Steve won’t come at all.  He hopes Steve’s out of town.  The last clear (well, clear-ish) memory of Steve he can drudge up seems to involve his fist connecting with Steve’s jaw.  So maybe they’re not friends…?  And that other, foggier, way-back idea of them sleeping together is something imagined…?  Bucky rubs between his eyebrows as if that would actually help alleviate anything.

 

There’s a soft sound of movement from inside the townhouse, and the deadbolt clicks before the door swings open.  Bucky doesn’t realize he’s leaning on the grey-painted wood until it’s not there anymore, and he manages to hold his own weight for about one second, just long enough to make eye contact through his wet, stringy hair, before he’s falling forward.  Vertigo steals any perception of directionality, and it’s only when Steve’s shoulder materializes under Bucky’s chin that he has any inkling of where he is in relation to anything else.

 

“Hey,” Steve whispers.  Bucky starts to sag against him, all previous apprehension and  _don’t touch me_ lost in a sudden and involuntary non-verbal  _hi I’m here and I kind of need you and I hope you’re ok with that._

They hug for a while.  Well, Steve hugs; Bucky hangs there limply.  The contrast of the warm house from the cold outside makes Bucky’s nose drip.  He breaks the silence with a loud sniff.

 

“Come in,” Steve says.  “Come sit down.” 

 

Bucky struggles to get his feet underneath him and follows Steve through the entryway into the living room.  He sits on the couch when Steve gestures for him to do so.  Steve perches on the edge of the coffee table, offering a Kleenex and a throw blanket.  

 

Bucky’s sure Steve’s asking questions, but the words are getting lost somewhere between Steve’s mouth and his ears.  “You’re, um…hm.  Ok…” is about all he gleans.  Bucky’s so fucking tired.  It feels like cement is slowly pooling around him and enveloping his body in inescapable heaviness.  But at least it’s warm.

 

“Buck.”

 

It’s the first time Steve’s said his name in the few minutes they’ve been together.  It’s the first time anyone’s said his name in who-knows-how-long.  Bucky opens eyes he didn’t realize were closed.

 

“What can I do?  What’s gonna help the most?”

 

Bucky doesn’t have an answer.  He’s wet and shaky and exhausted and not feeling very well, and there are probably things that can be done to fix that, but Bucky can’t begin to imagine what they are.  He owes Steve something of an answer, though.

 

“I…um…?”  It’s truly the best he can do.  He opens his mouth again, but words don’t come.  Bucky shakes his head, brings on a wave of nauseous vertigo, and drops his face into his hand.

 

“It’s alright, ok?” Steve says.  He hovers his hand over Bucky’s knee.  “I’m just really glad you’re here.”

 

Bucky spends the next few minutes trying to drudge up a response, but fails miserably.  Instead he finally wipes the dribble of snot that’s traveled from his nose down over his upper lip where it’s lost in stubble.

 

“Are you hungry?”

 

Bucky has literally no idea.  He can’t remember the last time he ate.  He does have a feeling that his stomach hasn’t been treating him too well lately. 

 

“I have all these leftovers,” Steve says.  “I was gonna make myself a plate.  I can get some for you?”

 

Steve’s voice goes up at the end, like he’s expecting an answer, but Bucky manages just a hitchy breath and another swipe of the Kleenex.

“Ok, I’ll just…how about something small.”  It’s less of a question this time.  “I’ll be right back.”  He gestures to the kitchen, which is widely visible from the living room.  “If you need me, or anything at all, just say so.”

 

Turning his head to look into the kitchen is borderline painful, so Bucky lets his eyes slide out of focus as he gazes forward toward the turned-off flat screen TV and listens to the sink running and the microwave whirring.  He feels like he’s bobbing just under the surface of sun-bleached lake water. Everything’s feeling somewhat nostalgic and nice, but also frighteningly wrong, as if one wrong move will send him drowning to the depths.

 

“Here.”  Steve’s offering a plate of sliced turkey and mashed potatoes and a glass of water.  Bucky takes the plate and sets it in his own lap, and Steve puts the glass on the coffee table before going back to the kitchen for his own dinner. 

 

They sit side by side on the couch and eat in silence.  Well, Steve eats; Bucky picks.  His jaw feels tired after chewing a couple bites of meat, and the potatoes, though delicious, verge on too creamy and salty to feel comfortable in his mouth.

 

“Are you done?”  Steve’s done, and he reaches for Bucky’s half-eaten plate.

 

“Uh…”

 

“It’s ok.  You don’t have to be hungry.  We’ll save it for later,” Steve says as he takes the plate back to the kitchen.  He cleans the dishes quickly, and is back to Bucky’s side.

 

Bucky has no idea what time it is, but it’s dark outside, and he’s tired enough to sleep.  He feels like he probably shouldn’t, though.  Like maybe something bad happened last time he tried.  But he can’t remember exactly what.

 

“Do you want to lie down?”  Steve can read his face.  Or maybe read his mind.  Bucky tries to read Steve’s, but doesn’t come up with much.  Just concern.  Or pity?

 

Bucky starts to shift so he can recline on the couch, but Steve stops him.  “No, come upstairs.  You need to sleep in a bed.”  He leads Bucky up to the bedroom.  Bucky tries not to grip the railing too tightly, but he ends up having to when he trips over the top step.

 

Steve fusses over him for two seconds, then grabs Bucky a pair of sweat pants and a clean T-shirt from his closet.  “There’s a bathroom,” he points out the ensuite.  “Then you can sleep here.”  He pats the foot of the bed where Bucky’s already collapsed.  “Do you need help?  Or want some space?”

 

Bucky shrugs and shakes his head.

 

Steve sighs.  “Ok.  I’m gonna…in the office, right next door.  I’m gonna blow up the air mattress.”  He moves his hands awkwardly.  “If you need anything…”

 

Bucky nods, then wishes he hadn’t when his forehead throbs.

 

“Ok.”  Steve retreats.

 

Bucky changes clothes without so much as standing up, and he foregoes toweling his hair or washing his face in favor of burrowing under the blankets into sheets and pillows that smell familiar and comforting.

 

_James is squinting down the barrel of an assault rifle, lining up crosshairs on the target.  She’s young, maybe mid-20s, with glossy black hair peeking out of her headscarf and red lipstick gracing her full mouth.  Her baby bump is visible under the fabric of her long dress.  James locks the crosshairs on her left ear, takes a quick breath, and pulls the trigger._

Bucky wakes up with a strangled, wet grunting exclamation.  He’s not in the rear-facing seat in the back of a van, but his stomach didn’t get the memo.  His brain still hasn’t engaged, and he doesn’t know where he is, and he’s starting to gag on something he doesn’t remember eating. 

Bucky gets as far as shoving up on his stump arm when Steve bursts into the room, just in time to watch Bucky throw up in his bed.

 

“Hey, you’re ok, you’re ok,” Steve says, “Come on, let’s go in here.”  He pulls Bucky out of bed and steers him into the bathroom.  The next heave hits the floor in front of the toilet, but Steve throws down a towel gets Bucky onto his knees for the rest of the retches, which are rapidly becoming dry. 

 

“It’s alright, ok?” Steve says, patting Bucky between the shoulder blades. 

 

Bucky coughs, spit flying from his open mouth.  It’s not ok.  Steve shouldn’t see this.  Steve shouldn’t have to guide him through this.  This is why he’s unlovable and broken and worthless… “I…” Bucky croaks.  “I—I’ll go…”

 

“No,” Steve says, draping his arm over Bucky’s shoulders and holding him close while he still bends over the toilet.  “No, you don’t…If you don’t feel good, you don’t feel good.  It’s not…you didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“I—” Bucky breaks off in a hack.  “I killed…”

 

“No, you didn’t.”

 

“But I…” 

 

“It was a dream,” Steve says in a firm, yet gentle voice. 

 

Bucky’s out of breath and beyond dizzy.  He drops his cheek to the toilet seat.  He has a feeling it wasn’t a dream, at least, not completely.  He’s afraid to articulate that, that it might make it true.  But he’s also afraid he’ll explode if he keeps it in.  Or at least vomit again, which he does.

Steve rubs up and down his spine until Bucky stops retching and is just violently trembling, which really isn’t that much of an improvement. 

 

Steve brings Bucky a paper cup of water to rinse out his mouth, then quietly asks, “Do you want to lay on the air mattress for a while?  I can get it cleaned up in here, and you can go back to bed.”

 

Bucky inhales something like “uh huh” because his head hurts too much to nod properly. 

 

“Ok,” Steve intones as he pulls Bucky upright and into the office down the hall.  “Here, it’s low,” he warns before lowering him to the edge of the thin blow up bed. 

 

Bucky eases himself down, recognizing the scent of Steve over the essence of plastic surrounding the mattress and bedding. 

“I’ll be right back,” Steve says.

 

But no, that’s not going to work.  “No,” Bucky whispers.

 

“I’ll be really quick,” Steve offers.

 

“Stay.  Please.”  A single tear tracks down Bucky’s cheek, and he half lifts his right arm in Steve’s direction.

 

“I…” Steve starts.  “Ok.  Ok.  I can get it in the morning.”  He slides down onto the mattress, leaving space between their bodies.

Bucky edges forward until his face is in Steve’s chest, breathing him in.  Steve holds Bucky to him and snakes his arm around his back.

 

The first night Bucky comes back to Steve, they spend it together on an air mattress.


	2. Pearl Harbor Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is finally able to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short. Sorry.

On Pearl Harbor Day, Steve prays for the first time since before the war. It’s not a deep, meaningful prayer for lost souls as it probably should be. No, it’s a stupid, shallow, murmured curse of a prayer whispered against the dripping tile wall in the shower. “God, please let him not puke again today.”

 

Steve keeps telling Bucky it’s fine, and it _is_ fine. Steve’ll do anything for him, to make sure he’s ok, and god, to just get him _feeling_ a little better. If that means changing vomity sheets, or holding him on the bathroom floor, or calling Nat and Sam and asking them to drop off cases of Pedialyte and Ensure on the front porch…well, that’s what he’ll do. That’s what he’ll do if it means he can have Bucky back.

 

But still, Steve’s getting worn down. Two weeks is a long time to suffer like this. The first day was _ok, you’re sick_. The second and third days were _maybe you’re still sick_. By the fourth day it was _maybe the food isn’t agreeing with you_. On the tenth day, Steve started worrying he’d have to take Bucky to the hospital. But then on the eleventh day, Bucky kept down a whole 250 calories worth of nutrition shake, and that seemed like enough progress to count for something.

 

They’ve been touch and go since then. Bucky seems to throw up anything that’s too cold or too flavorful. Steve internally cringes every time he cracks the lid off a bottle of lukewarm vanilla Ensure, wondering what kind of life this is… Until he remembers that this is the kind of life that’s brought Bucky back to him.

 

This morning, the morning of the fourteenth day, Steve couldn’t stand it anymore and made Bucky a piece of toast. From the way Bucky carefully devoured it, he couldn’t stand it either.

 

Steve settled Bucky in front of the TV and flipped to the National Geographic channel before guiltily retreating to the kitchen to fry himself a few eggs. They’ve gotten good at TV. ESPN and Nat Geo work well to pass the time and distract from the situation at hand. There’s no overarching storyline in most of the programming, so it’s better for Steve’s wandering mind and Bucky’s glazed expression.

 

They’d watched an hour of African savannah something-or-other, Bucky tucked under Steve’s arm. Steve’d started to feel sweaty and overdue for a good wash, but leaving Bucky alone hadn’t ended so well the last few times he’d tried. Cleaning, though, isn’t that bad. And he’d kept the toast down for a whole hour…

 

Not keen to tempt fate, Steve’d set Bucky up with the small plastic bathroom trash can and excused himself for a quick shower.

 

Now, Steve finishes washing his hair and whispers another, “Oh, god, please.”

 

The bathroom door opens with a creak. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but Steve knows it’s him, knows he needs help.

 

“I’ll be out in a sec,” Steve says, shutting off the water and reaching around the edge of the curtain for a towel.

 

“The, uh…toast,” Bucky mumbles.

 

“Yeah, it’s ok if your stomach’s sick again.”

 

“No, I…um…” Bucky says. “Can I have…another one?”

 

The first meal Bucky keeps down Steve pulls from the toaster and plates up with a towel still wrapped around his waist.


	3. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets a gift. He also gets to meet Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, we're 3 for 3 with #waitresssteve. SO SORRY. It's gonna keep being a trope here. I feel like that's just kind of what caring people do.

Christmas is delicate.  Bucky understands what the holiday is and has some fleeting feeling he’s celebrated it with Steve before, but he’s utterly unprepared to handle it.  Bright lights and liturgical music and slapstick comedy are all things he has yet to warm up to, and he’s well aware that this makes celebrating difficult.

 

The nightmare load is on the lighter side, and Bucky’s only up and down a couple of times during the night.  Steve rubs his back and holds him close, and they stay lounging in bed until well after 10am. Eventually Bucky has to get up when he starts feeling nauseous.  He’s still learning the quirks of his own body, but he’s been ill enough in the past month to have a feeling this shade of sickness is more related to hunger than anything else.

 

Steve toasts bagels and Bucky elevates the occasion by pouring his nutritional shake into a glass instead of drinking it out of the bottle. 

 

“Merry Christmas,” Steve says, lifting his cream cheese-laden bagel as if making a toast before he takes an enormous bite.

 

“Merry Christmas,” Bucky echoes in a whisper. 

 

Steve’s told him about 15 times that Christmas doesn’t matter, the only thing that’s important is the fact that Bucky’s back home.  They didn’t even put up decorations.  According to Steve, it’s just another day.  Still, though, Bucky feels odd.  Like he’s messed up, like he’s lacking in the worst possible way. 

 

It would be impossible for him go buy Steve a gift anyway, seeing as he has no money, too much anxiety to leave the house, and limited skills with the computer.

 

Bucky drains his shake and plays with the butter knife from the top of the cream cheese tub.  “I, uh…” Bucky says.  “I…didn’t get you anything.  Any presents.”

 

Steve slides his plate out of the way so he can stretch his arm along the table and reach for Bucky’s hand.  “Buck.  You are my present this year.  I don’t need anything.”

 

“I…I hope you didn’t…get me…”  Steve is so overwhelmingly nice, and Bucky’s not sure he’ll be able to handle any more generosity when he can’t reciprocate. 

 

“No,” Steve reassures.  But, then, “I did, well, get  _us_ something.  It’s really small.”  He releases Bucky’s hand.  “Do you want to see it?  I think you’ll really like it.”  He opens the kitchen junk drawer and pulls out a slim yellow magazine.  “I know you really like those Nat Geo shows, so I thought we should get a subscription to the magazine.”

 

He sets the periodical on the table and Bucky bends over it, taking in the photo of the northern lights on the cover.  It’s so beautiful and so real, and now he’ll be able to read about it and learn about it…and be able to back up and go slow and re-read what he doesn’t understand.  It’s perfect.  Bucky looks up at Steve and smiles.

 

Late in the afternoon on Christmas day, Sam rings the doorbell.  Steve’d warned Bucky this would probably happen, but that doesn’t keep it from being downright shocking when it happens.  Bucky’s never heard the dinging sound in the month he’s lived in the townhouse, and he’s not sure he’s ever lived somewhere with a bell that made such a sound. 

 

When the sound goes off, Bucky’s mid-stride in the hallway, on his way to the living room or maybe the kitchen.  The ringing bell has completely wiped any sense of what he’s doing, and he just stands there stupidly staring through the entryway to the front door.

 

“That’s probably Sam,” Steve says, brushing past Bucky and pausing on the doormat.  “Do you remember?  I told you he said he wanted to stop by.”

 

Bucky nods, but he doesn’t actually recall. 

 

“He’s a good guy, you’ll get along great,” Steve assures as he starts to unlock the door.

 

Bucky’s still frozen to the spot, filled with sudden and bubbling anxiety that’s threatening to overflow. As soon as he hears Steve’s, “Hey, good to see ya,” Bucky bolts down the hall to the bathroom and shuts the door.

 

The sound of his breathing is amplified in the echo-y room.  It takes all of about 20 seconds for Steve to come knock on the door and see if Bucky’s ok.  “Buck?  Are…are you feeling alright?”  He doesn’t straight-up ask  _are you ok?_ because  _ok_  is such a moving target.  Better start with the basics.   _Does my friend being her make you physically ill?_

“No.”  Bucky accidentally answers the mental question before he remembers he’s supposed to be responding to the verbal one.  “I mean, yes.  Fuck.”

 

“I can tell him it’s not a good time,” Steve offers.

 

“I…I’m fine.”  Bucky leans against the door from the inside.  “I just, uh…”  How to put this into words? Bucky’s actually not opposed to meeting Steve’s friends.  If they’re anywhere near as great as Steve makes them out to be, they’ll accept Bucky as he is and get along with him well.  It sounds like a good step in the right direction for getting back to anything close to normal. 

 

However, the thought of Sam being in the house, all normal and well adjusted, makes Bucky crave separation, some sort of acknowledgement that he’s not in good shape right now, and a veil of protection from the nebulous ideas of far bygone bad things that differentiate him from everyone else.  So he doesn’t mind if Steve hangs out with Sam.  Bucky kind of wants to hang out with Sam. Right now he just needs a closed door between them while he does it.

 

“You sure?  We can hang out another time,” Steve says.

 

“Yeah, I’m…I’m good.  I just, um…space?”

 

“Ok,” Steve says with a little sigh and a lot of patience.  “Come out when you’re ready.  And let me know if you need anything.”

 

Bucky nods, not considering that Steve can’t see him.

 

He stands there, leaning against the bathroom door for almost an hour.  Bucky can hear Steve and Sam shooting the shit, chatting about work, mutual friends, holiday shenanigans… ESPN or something similarly sports-sounding is on the TV.  It’s not threatening in any way.

 

Finally Bucky takes a step back and wraps his hand around the doorknob.  He’s on the point of turning it when footsteps approach, and he lets to and jumps back a foot or so.

 

“Hey Buck?”  Steve murmurs, “Sam brought over some pecan pie and ice cream.  I don’t know how that would feel on your stomach, but, do you want some.  It’s homemade.  Well, the pie is.  It’s good stuff.”

 

Bucky breathes more times than he probably needs to.  “Ok.”

 

“Ok,” Steve repeats.  “I’ll, uh, get you a plate?”

 

“Ok.”

 

“Alright,” Steve says, ignoring the logistics of the situation and stepping away from the door.

 

Bucky spends another couple minutes collecting himself.  He finally gusts in an inhale that almost makes him cough and turns the doorknob so the bathroom door swings open a whole four inches.

 

Sam’s sort of perching on the arm of the couch, watching the TV and Steve in the kitchen.  His body perks when he hears the bathroom door creak, but he calmly waits a few seconds before slowly turning his head to make eye contact with Bucky. 

 

It’s beyond clear that he’s done this before.  Sam knows anxiety and edginess and responds to it expertly.  And that gives Bucky the confidence to let go of the doorknob and allow gravity to take the door all the way open.

 

“Hi,” Sam says.

 

“Um,” Bucky replies.

 

“I’m Sam.  Do you go by James?”  Steve has to have told him, but Sam asks anyway.

 

“James’s fine.” Bucky murmurs.  “So’s uh, Bucky.”

 

“Cool,” Sam says.  He slowly swings his leg off the arm of the couch and sinks to the floor, loosely facing Bucky in the bathroom.  “This pie, it’s the real shit.  My mom’s old recipe.”

 

Bucky doesn’t have a good reply, so he just sits too, still over the invisible battle line, but completely open with his chest facing Sam’s shoulder.

 

Steve appears with plates, somehow managing to balance all three at once.  He passes them around and sits on the carpet, completing the triangle. 

 

The friendly banter slowly starts up again, Steve and Sam including Bucky even though he doesn’t always have something to say.  Time passes easily and comfortably, and before they know it, soft Christmas night has fallen.

 

The first time Bucky spends time with Steve’s friends, he spends it from the safety of the bathroom floor.  But he spends it all the same.


	4. New Year's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some issues involving broken glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not quite sure how Star Wars and hot chocolate became part of Steve and Bucky's world (blame the fans), but I'm not one to deprive the boys of their faves.

Steve gives Bucky a thorough pep talk on the morning of New Year’s Eve. 

 

“I don’t know if you remember this, stuff’s changed over the years.  Well, not that much, but anyway…”  He’s having trouble getting to the point.

 

They’re sitting side-by-side on the couch watching Animal Planet, and Bucky’s not sure if Steve’s talking about the tropical birds on screen or something else.

 

“New Year’s Eve is a pretty big party night.  You know, we used to…go do stuff…”

 

Ok.   _That’s_  what they’re talking about.

 

“I don’t want…” Bucky starts.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Steve immediately soothes.  “We’re not going out.  But, other people probably are.  And there are sometimes lots of loud noises, like champagne popping.  Or fireworks.”  He pauses.  “Sometimes they…shoot off guns at midnight.”

 

Bucky chews at his lip.  “That’s…why?”

 

“I don’t know,” Steve says.  “It’s stupid.  Also illegal.  They’re not supposed to, but they might.”  He places his hand on Bucky’s shoulder in the way they’ve found is soothing without being overwhelming.  “There might be some…stressors tonight.  But we’ll get through it.  Sam’s coming over, remember?  We’ll watch some movies, hang out, get through it together.”

 

Bucky nods.  He picks at the label on his nutritional shake.  It’s kind of unfair that he’s just come back to reality and now all these stressors are piling up, threatening to overwhelm him at every turn.  But then again, he’s kind of stupid for thinking he deserves to get away scot free.

 

By 5pm, Bucky’s definitely on edge.  He lies and tells Steve he’s not, but he’s sure Steve can see through it.  He changes his shirt four times because the necklines feel like they’re creeping up to choke him.

 

At 6:30, Steve sits him down at the kitchen table with the Eddie Bauer after-Christmas-sales catalogue and immediately orders everything Bucky points out.  “You’ll be a lot more comfortable in your own clothes,” Steve says as he chooses the option for rush shipping.  Then he glances at Bucky’s concerned face.  “That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to borrow mine.  Whatever you want to do, it’s fine.  But I think you’ll be happier in V-neck.”

 

At 9:00, Sam shows up with three grocery sacks of junk food and the original Star Wars trilogy on BluRay.  Steve cues up the first movie and distributes ginger ale and hot chocolate.  Bucky warily eyes the bowl of Doritos on the coffee table, unsure of whether he wants to risk ingesting something so neon orange. 

 

“Here,” Steve’s holding out a box of Junior Mints.  “You’ll probably like these.  The mint won’t kill your stomach too bad.”

 

Bucky takes a couple of the candies and sucks on them until they dissolve.  They are nice.  Familiar and less acrid than most of the other unhealthy food he’s tried (and largely failed) to eat.

 

Steve sits on the couch beside him, and after the usual rundown of questions ( _Are you hungry?  How are you feeling?_ ), they settle down to actually watch the movie. 

 

Bucky doesn’t quite follow, but some stuff seems weirdly familiar, like he can’t really remember if he’s seen Star Wars before.  The thought is fleeting, though, as he’s starting to feel exhausted.  At 10:30, Steve throws Bucky the afghan and shifts down to the other end of the couch so Bucky can stretch out a little.

 

_James is busting down the house’s door with his elbow.  Four or five men stand with their hands behind their heads, facing the dining room wall.  Without being able to see their faces, they all could be the target.  Or one of them.  Or none of them.  James can’t afford to fail the mission.  One by one, he executes each with a shot through the back of the head…_

Bucky jerks awake and is on his feet before he recognizes what his body’s trying to do.  The blanket is tangled around his legs, and his eyes aren’t even completely open when he’s crashing into the coffee table, ceramic and corn chips and lukewarm cocoa exploding under his arm and chest.

 

“Bucky, hey, hey, come here,” Steve’s attempting to loudly soothe over the sounds of the TV.  He gets arms around Bucky’s torso and pulls him back toward the couch.  Bucky’s breathing hard, trying to get a grip on his dizziness and disorientation.  He can hear it now, the distant sharp boom of gunshots.

 

“Are they seriously doing 12?” Sam asks no one in particular, looking disgusted and tense himself as he sweeps some of the broken glass and food into a more manageable pile on the coffee table.

 

“Alright, hey, look at me,” Steve says, keeping Bucky from burying his face in his hand.  And it’s a good thing he does, because there are minute sharp tooth-like bits of broken ceramic embedded in Bucky’s palm. 

 

“Shit,” Steve mutters, and he calls Sam over to take a look.  “Is this…?  Do we need to go to the hospital?”

 

“No, no, no…” Bucky mumbles, feeling sick.  He’s not comfortable leaving the house, let alone going somewhere with…other people…

 

Sam takes Bucky’s hand and squints at the punctures.  “If you got tweezers and rubbing alcohol, I can probably swing it,” Sam says.  “I don’t think they’re deep enough to need stitches, but if I do it, it’s probably going to hurt.”

 

“’S fine…” Bucky murmurs. 

 

“Ok, come in where there’s good light.”  Sam leads Bucky into the kitchen while Steve runs upstairs for first-aid supplies.  As soon as Bucky’s seated at the table, he drops his forehead to the hard wood surface.  The smell of chocolate and artificial nacho cheese on his T-shirt is nauseating.  His voice isn’t working, and Bucky’s useless with Sam holding his right hand hostage, so he sort of wiggles his stump arm in his sleeve until Steve shows back up, takes pity on him, and yanks the soiled fabric over his head.

 

It stings terribly when Sam sterilizes the small wounds in Bucky’s palm, and when he slides out the broken glass, and again when he smooths Band-Aids over the punctures.  Sam instructs him to watch for swelling and oozing, but assures him he’ll be ok.

 

The first time Bucky gets hurt after he comes back home, the pain of the wound is nothing compared to the pain that still sits in his heart.


	5. Martin Luther King Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky panics when he and Steve leave the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there are any snacks in this one. :)

On Martin Luther King Day, Steve suggests they take a walk.  At first Bucky’s not keen on the idea.  He hasn’t left the townhouse since the day he arrived. 

 

Steve reminds him that before he showed up, Bucky must’ve been somewhere in the outside world. That’s part of what’s so disconcerting, though.  Bucky doesn’t have a grasp on what the fuck he was doing before he moved in with Steve, but it’s clear that he wasn’t doing it very well. 

 

“Buck, I’m gonna run out of vacation in a few weeks,” Steve explains.  “I’ll have to go back to work eventually.  And it’ll give me a lot of peace of mind if I know you’re capable of leaving the house if you need to.”

 

It’s a good point.  It’ll give Bucky a lot of peace of mind too.  But that doesn’t stop it being scary as shit. 

 

The house is comforting.  It’s still new to Bucky, but something about its compactness and predictability brings a lot of order to his life. 

 

Steve takes Bucky to the window beside the front door and points out the path down the sidewalk that leads around another row of townhomes and into a small patch of park.  The tall pine trees surrounding the grassy field are visible from their entryway.  If he squints, home will still be visible from the park when they get there.  This should not be as big a deal as it feels like.

 

Though they wait until the warmest part of the afternoon, it’s still cold out.  Bucky bundles up in his new stormdown coat, which Steve has to zip up for him, and slams a beanie from the top of the coat closet down onto his head.

 

It’s pleasant enough as they amble down the sidewalk in front of their row of houses.  Bucky’s never taken in the view from the outside; he had no idea the paneling of their building is white and the roof is black.

 

There are clods of dirty grey snow in the gutter, and Steve kicks one to watch it explode against the base of a mailbox.  “There’s not usually this much,” Steve says.  “It’s been kind of a cold, wet winter.”

 

Bucky nods, though he has no idea of what’s normal for temperatures and precipitation in this place in this time. 

 

True to Steve’s word, it takes only five minutes for them to follow the sidewalk up to the park.  Other people seem to have the same idea, and there are a couple groups of kids and three different people walking dogs along various stretches of grass. 

 

Bucky uses his right hand to shove his empty left sleeve into his pocket before they pass a group of pre-teen girls clustered around an iPod that’s screeching  _Baby, baby, baby, oh…_

 

Bucky doesn’t realize he’s making a sort of disgusted face until he catches Steve’s eye and Steve starts laughing. 

 

It seems like maybe the walk is going to be ok until they decide to sit on a bench.  Steve sinks down first and pats the two feet or so between him and another small pile of snow.  Bucky sits, leaning his right shoulder into Steve’s armpit.  Steve’s body is warm, and Bucky’s coat is warm, but the bench under his ass is frigid.  And things are starting to feel all wrong.

 

The cold is seeping upward, through Bucky’s thighs and into this stomach, up to his chest.  He knows it’s not cold enough for him to see his breath when he exhales, but he swears suddenly he can.  It’s freezing inside him, it’s going to take him and keep him alone and separate and unable to do anything but watch, watch everything go wrong…

 

His breath’s coming too fast.  “Hey, you ok?” Steve asks, patting Bucky’s stump with the arm that’s slung over his shoulders. 

 

Bucky has no words, only gasps.  His right hand is curling into a fist around a handful of Steve’s jeans.

 

“Alright, alright,” Steve soothes, patting Bucky’s shoulder again and reaching for his stubbly jaw.

 

Bucky’s head is starting to throb.  There’s too much spit in his mouth.  The park is slowly spinning; his vision is tunneling. 

 

“Here, ok, put your head down.”  Steve’s squatting in front of Bucky’s knees and guiding his head forward to his broad shoulder.  He wraps both arms around Bucky’s back.  “Come on, try to breathe through it.”

 

“I—guh.  Fuck,” Bucky mutters.  He’s drowning.  He’s going to puke.  He’s going to pass out.

 

“Alright, breathe.”

 

Bucky swallows bile and sucks in air scented with Steve’s soap and laundry detergent that’s still cold enough to burn his nose. 

 

“I got you.  It’s ok.  Try to relax.”

 

He coughs and pants into Steve’s neck.  Dizziness is ramping up; Bucky squeezes his eyes closed.

 

“Alright, keep breathing, ok.  I can count you off if you want.”

 

Bucky doesn’t mean for the next inhale to become a gasp.

 

“Ok.  Ten,” Steve says, taking a breath that makes his shoulder rise under Bucky’s forehead.  “Nine.”

 

Bucky can’t control the bursts of air in his throat until five.  But he’s still almost limp by one.

 

“Ok,” Steve soothes for what seems like the thousandth time.  “Are you with me?”

 

Bucky nods, which makes his head spin.  He’s so dizzy it hardly matters.

 

“Ok.  Great.”  Steve sighs, though his voice is far from sarcastic.  “How are you feeling?”

 

“Just…” Bucky tries.  “Not…” 

 

“It’s ok.  We’ll stay here as long as you need.  And I’ll get you home.”

 

The first time Bucky leaves the townhouse, he realizes it’s not actually the house that makes him feel comfortable and safe.


	6. Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's mortified when a nightmare pushes him over the edge. Also, a little romance sparks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't supposed to be fetishy or anything. I hope you know that.

Bucky and Steve don’t do anything for Valentine’s Day.  Bucky’s been back almost three months. Although they sleep in the same bed and care for each other like family, romance is decidedly on the back burner.

 

Leaving the house is still a challenge.  Bucky’s warmed up to the 24-hour gym at the end of the block and the Vietnamese takeaway next door to it, but going out to dinner or even for a stroll in the park is a little much to ask.  There’s also snow on the ground again, which Bucky’s keen to avoid.

 

They go to bed early on the 14th, partly because they’ve both been up since 4am, and partly because Steve’s back at work after using every last second of his vacation to stay home with Bucky, and the new routine is stressful.

 

It’s only 9:00 when they’ve polished off their order of delivery pho, showered, and flopped down into bed. 

 

“Did you…have a good day?” Bucky mumbles into his pillow.

 

“It was ok,” Steve says.  “Kind of a lot of paperwork…”  He hugs Bucky around the waist.  “How was your day?”

 

They’re both asleep before Bucky can really organize his speech into the details of the articles in this month’s National Geographic magazine.

 

_James is shivering because he’s so cold.  The chair of metal and plastic leather beneath him is damp and freezing.  His skin is beaded with perspiration, and the metal plates of the machine are coming closer and closer to his face.  Terror is rising in is throat.  He’s done something wrong, he’s being punished for something, but he can’t remember what.  Electricity crackles before metal meets his temples, and he can taste the pain before he feels it…_

Bucky wakes comparatively peacefully, with a half-grunt and start that barely shakes the mattress. He’s sweltering and freezing and not quite sure where he is for a second, but Steve gives him a comforting and half-assed pat and a snuggle that clearly says  _go back to sleep, I don’t feel like waking up._

Bucky tries to slow his breathing back to a relaxed tempo.  He’s drenched, sweat’s dripping from his hairline, and his T-shirt’s sticking to his chest and back.  His sweats and even the sheets cling heavily to his legs.  It’s oppressively hot, and as he shifts under the covers, Bucky realizes with a pang of horror that it’s not all sweat gluing him to the mattress.

 

He stops moving and lays as still as he can, trying hard not to taste his dinner at the back of his throat.  What has he done?  He should pack his things and run now, before Steve wakes up and sees that he’s pissed the bed like a toddler.  But Bucky doesn’t have any things, everything’s either Steve’s or bought with Steve’s money.  And he can’t imagine existing on his own, least of all because he really can’t remember how he did.

 

The oppressive heat’s dissolving into frigidity, and Bucky can’t stop the onset of tremors.  He’s so mortified and nauseated he can barely breathe, and even though every cell of his body is screaming for him to get out of bed and do something, he can’t will himself to move. 

 

So he just stays there, on his side, turned away from Steve, until the bed is cold.  It’s agony.  Every inch of Bucky’s skin is on fire, despite the way his fingers and toes are numb.  The clock on his bedside table is just outside his visual field, and Bucky feels like he endures an eternity of torture before finally Steve stirs. 

 

He thinks Bucky’s still asleep, so he tries gently to wake him.  “Buck?”

 

Bucky can’t look at him when he rolls over, so he covers his face with his hand.  He’s shaking as if he’s crying, but he’s too tightly wound for tears. 

 

“Can you…?  Come on, we need to get up for a little bit,” Steve murmurs as he scrapes Bucky out of bed and leads him to the bathroom. 

 

Bucky rests his elbow and stump arm on the counter and gags fruitlessly over the sink.  “You’re ok, it’s ok.  It’s fine,” Steve intones, patting Bucky’s back.  He reaches down to help Bucky out of his soggy sweats and towel him off before briefly retreating to the dresser and coming back with clean underwear.

 

“I’m so…so…sorry,” Bucky whispers to the faucet, his voice shaking with not-tears. 

 

“It’s ok,” Steve says again.  “It’s just sheets.  It’s just laundry.  It’s nothing.”

 

Bucky stays in the bathroom while Steve takes the bedding downstairs and starts the wash.  “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorryI’msorry,” he can’t stop murmuring, even when his voice stops forcing out the sounds. 

 

Steve comes to get him a few minutes later.  He leads Bucky to the kitchen table and starts making PB&Js, which he delivers on paper towels along with a full carton of milk.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky croaks again.

 

“You had a nightmare about something terrible that probably actually happened to you,” Steve says, a little brusquely.  “It’s fine.  Babe.  Sweetheart.  Buck.  It’s fine.”

 

“I’m just…so sorry.”

 

Bucky’s positive that the first time Steve kisses him, it’s mostly because he wants him to shut up.


	7. St. Patrick's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's sick and tortured with nightmares. This is a remix of Stand my ground, face my fears. This time from Steve's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, obvs very different and abbreviated from the original.

On St. Patrick’s Day, Steve forgets to wear green.  He’s distracted as he gets dressed; Bucky’s still lying in bed, squinting at him through eyes that aren’t quite awake.  After he’s got a shirt over his head, Steve stops back by the bed on his way into the bathroom.  He runs his hand over Bucky’s hair and whispers, “Good morning,” as he tries to gauge Bucky’s temperature. 

 

He’s warm, certainly feverish.  Steve mulls it over while he brushes his teeth.  It’s the first time Bucky’s spiked a fever since he moved in.  Steve has no idea how Bucky’ll handle it.  He’d prefer to stay home and make sure everything’s ok, but he’s out of sick time and vacation.  Bucky knows how to use the phone and call him in an emergency, but Steve doesn’t have a lot of faith that Bucky can recognize an emergency when it’s happening to his own body.  At least it’s Friday.

 

Bucky’s asleep again when Steve emerges and heads downstairs.  Steve throws leftover spaghetti into a Tupperware for his lunch and lines up the last few bottles of Ensure on the counter for Bucky.  He adds ginger ale, crackers, and Gatorade to the buffet before heading out the door and hopping on his bike. 

 

Steve’s home before 5pm, mostly because he squeaks through yellow lights and weaves through traffic in a way he knows is dangerous and not too intelligent.  But he hasn’t heard from Bucky all day, and he’s got a bad feeling about how things are going at home.

 

It turns out he’s right.  Bucky’s on the couch, not quite watching the TV.  His face is chalky, and his cheeks are flushed under his stubble.  “Hey,” Steve says, sitting down on the couch and gently resting his hand on Bucky’s knee, which is warm through the pajamas he’s still wearing.  “How’re you doing?”

 

“I.  Um.  I don’t…feel good,” Bucky mumbles.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says.  “Yeah, I know.  What can I do to help you?”

 

“I don’t know…”  Bucky says.  He shifts so his ear is pressed to the arm of the couch like a pillow. 

 

So Steve sits beside him and stares at the TV.  Nat Geo’s having a marine life marathon.  Bucky asks Steve if it’s Shark Week, and Steve replies that Shark Week isn’t until July and it’s on a different channel.  That seems perplexing, and it’s more evidence that Bucky’s not firing on all cylinders. 

 

Steve can’t stop asking questions.  “How are you feeling?  Do you want me to get you anything?”

 

Bucky’s having a hard time paying attention, let alone answering.  It takes a few tries before he seems to realize not everything is a yes-or-no question, and answering “no” doesn’t necessarily mean Steve’s going to quit asking.

 

He says he’s not nauseous.  He doesn’t know if he’s feverish, but Steve thinks he is.  He won’t let Steve take his temperature.  He says “no” when Steve asks if he has a headache, but that’s either a lie or an automatic response gone wrong, because the stubborn wrinkle between Bucky’s eyes betrays otherwise.

 

By 9pm, Steve’s starving.  He heads to the kitchen to find something to count for dinner.  All the snacks and drinks Steve set out this morning are still there.  So, unless he decided to spontaneously cook and do the dishes, Bucky hasn’t eaten in over 12 hours. 

 

“Are you hungry?  Can I get you something to eat?”

 

“No.”  Of course.

 

“How about a drink,” Steve almost pleads.

 

“No.”

 

“Please drink something?”  He’s really pleading now.

 

“No.”

 

At midnight, Steve calls Sam. 

 

“What’s he sick with?” Sam asks.

 

“I don’t know, a cold or something,” Steve replies.  “I can tell he has a fever, but he won’t let me take his temp.  He just looks miserable.”

 

“Have you tried getting him to sleep?”

 

“I asked if he wanted to, and he said no.  But he’s saying that to everything, so I’m not sure he’s listening to the questions.”

 

“Hm,” Sam pauses.  “If he’s in pain, that’s probably all he’s thinking about.  If you can get him to take something, like Nyquil or even just ibuprofen, maybe he’ll chill out a little bit.”

 

“Yeah…” Steve says.  “I can try.”

 

He spends the next half hour tearing the bathroom apart looking for meds.  Steve eventually finds a neon-colored box of Nyquil that’s amazingly still within its expiration date.

 

Bucky’s completely curled into the arm of the sofa when Steve comes down to offer him the pills.  His face is obscured in the upholstery, and Steve pats his back to gently get his attention.  He relays the message from Sam, loosely promising relief with meds and sleep.  As expected, Bucky refuses.

 

“Come on, Buck, work with me,” Steve begs.

 

Bucky unglues himself from the couch and brushes past Steve.  Steve swears under his breath, but doesn’t follow.  Until he hears Bucky throwing up.

 

He’s not actually vomiting, but not for lack of trying.  Bucky dry heaves over the toilet until Steve presses him back against the wall, coaches him through breathing, and gives him the physical comfort he’s probably been craving the whole time.

 

Steve asks again whether Bucky wants to take something and go to sleep, and finally,  _finally_ , Bucky breaks down and says he’s not up to making decisions.

 

Steve can work with that.  He gives Bucky a cup of water and runs back to the living room for the Nyquil.  Bucky takes it with difficulty but without complaint.  And he crawls exhaustedly into bed as soon as Steve turns down the blankets.

 

Not unexpectedly, Bucky doesn’t sleep long.  He’s restless for four hours, and then suddenly he’s thrashing and shouting disconnected syllables.  Steve manhandles him onto his side and calls his name, trying to gently pull him back into reality.  Bucky gasps and coughs until Steve’s convinced he’s going to puke, but he still doesn’t. 

 

Steve holds him until he calms down.  His skin is clammy and still fevered.  Bucky hasn’t gone back to sleep after a nightmare since November, so Steve leads him downstairs and gets him something to eat.  Ice cream seems like the best choice because Bucky can tolerate it even though it’s cold, and the texture will be gentle on his stomach.  And it just seems like a hell of a lot better thing to offer than lukewarm protein shake.

 

They sit on the back porch for a while eating their dessert for breakfast.  Bucky tries to explain the nightmares, but it’s jumbled, and he has a hard time finding words.  Steve assures him that it’ll be ok.

 

And it kind of is.  Bucky vomits up the ice cream almost as soon as they’re back in the house, and they spend the entirety of Saturday watching Taboo on Nat Geo (“See, I told you it wasn’t Shark Week.”), and then just listening to the radio when that gets boring.  They try to play name that tune, but they’re both so bad at it they end up laughing.

 

The first time Bucky comes down with a fever, he learns that sometimes life just throws in more curveballs.  But with help, he can get through them.


	8. Easter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky delays Barton family dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Laura Barton, not just because she has my name. Said love will now be transferred to Bucky.

The first time Steve and Bucky accept an invitation, it’s to Easter dinner. Since practically none of their circle of friends have families nearby, Clint and Laura invite everyone ‘round for ham and lemon meringue pie.

 

Steve isn’t sure they should go, what with Bucky’s current tendencies and his own desire not to trigger anything. Bucky’s determined to go, mostly because of his current tendencies and mad desire to get over them

 

They’re in the car on the way to the Barton’s farmhouse in Paris, Virginia. Steve’s driving, and Bucky’s sitting shotgun with his right elbow propped against the window and his ear resting in his hand. He’s getting the start of a headache, which had better not evolve into anything worse. Not today.

 

“You ok?” Steve asks as he adjusts the staticky radio.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky replies.

 

“You can be nervous,” Steve assures him. “It’s ok.”

 

“Hm.”

 

They last five minutes in the silence before Steve asks, “What’s bugging you?”

 

“It’s nothing, just…” Bucky starts. “I don’t know how to talk to kids.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve chuckles. “Nobody does, unless they have kids.”

 

Steve’s right, Bucky doesn’t have to worry about it. They’re barely over the threshold of the Barton house when Lila and Cooper brush past them out the front door with hastily shouted “Hi”s and brandished nerf guns.

 

In the kitchen, Steve introduces Bucky to Clint, who offers them drinks, and Laura, who’s snapping asparagus over the sink. Once they’ve acquired a couple of cokes, they join Nat and Sam who are already lounging in the living room in front of the national dog show on TV.

 

Bucky sinks onto the couch beside Steve. He nods at Sam and Nat, grateful they understand him enough to not expect him to be especially verbal. Bucky’s slightly on edge, which is to be expected in a new environment. His head still hurts a little. But it’s fine, he tells himself. Everything’s fine.

 

He must have dozed off, because suddenly Steve’s moving out from under his shoulder and there's now football on the TV.

 

“We’re getting pretty close to dinnertime,” Steve murmurs to Bucky. “Clint wants to show me the monster grill he bought. It’s out on the deck. You wanna see it?”

 

Bucky blinks hard and swallows, trying to get himself situated in the proper millennium. “Hm. Not really,” he croaks, embarrassed at how sleepy he sounds.

 

“Ok,” Steve smiles. “I know, it’s not for everyone… I’ll be right back.”

 

Steve disappears out the back door with uncounted others, and Bucky’s alone in the living room. He runs his hand down his face, gauging his headache. It’s maybe a little worse than earlier. Bucky grabs his significantly less carbonated coke from the coffee table and drains it in a few gulps, hoping the caffeine will perk him up in more ways than one. The only thing it ends up doing, though, is making him nauseous.

 

He takes a deep breath and buries his face in his palm again. He should go get Steve, but he’s not keen on that idea. Steve didn’t want to come, and Bucky insisted. The last thing he wants is to prove that he is, in fact, too delicate to handle Easter dinner. Bucky can hear Laura still in the kitchen, and he thinks he’s maybe at the point where he should ask her if she has any ibuprofen. She’s nice, she has kids, and while she knows the basics of his situation, she doesn’t know everything like Steve. It’s normal to get occasional headaches. And share over-the-counter drugs with friends, despite health guidelines frowning upon it.

 

Bucky strolls quietly into the kitchen, hesitating around the edge of the island as Laura seems engrossed in putting on oven mitts. He steels himself up to speak, takes a deep inhale, and manages to push out, “Um, Laura…?” just as she pulls the ham from the oven.

 

“Um?” Bucky says again, and Laura starts, clearly surprised by another body in her environment, and drops the pan onto the tile floor with a sonorous clatter.

 

“Oh my god!” Laura exclaims, seemingly both at Bucky and at the pan on the floor. The ham is magically still on the pan, but its foil tent has collapsed and brown-red meat juices are forming a growing puddle on the floor.

 

Laura quickly rescues the pan to the stovetop, further dripping oily liquid that, to Bucky, is looking a little too much like water-diluted blood. He can’t stop himself from seeing it, dripping from his own body onto the floor of the industrial-looking shower…seeping from the target he just took out into frozen lake water…

 

“Are you ok?” Laura’s gripping a dishtowel in one hand and Bucky’s wrist in the other. He feels sick, he can barely breathe.

 

“James?”

 

Bucky’s teeth are ground together, and his jaw is trembling. His eyes are welling with heat, his head is spinning, his knees feel weak…

 

“Do you need to sit down?” Laura’s supporting him to sit on the kitchen floor. Bucky tips his head back against the cabinets and slaps his hand over his eyes.

 

“It’s alright,” Laura tries to soothe. “Do you want me to get Steve?”

 

“N-no,” Bucky manages through is tight jaw.

 

“Ok. Just relax. Try to breathe.”

 

Bucky tries. It takes a few seconds of quiet gasping, and he eventually lets his chin fall to his chest.

 

“Sorry,” he grunts when he can finally see the kitchen in front of him instead of just bloodied memories.

 

“No, no, it’s totally fine,” Laura says, daintily smoothing his sleeve over his shoulder. “Everything’s alright. How are you feeling?”

 

Bucky thinks for a moment. How does he feel? His head still hurts, but beyond that, deep inside his chest, he thinks he feels…

 

“I feel…guilty?” Bucky posits. He’s not sure he has the right word for the gnawing ache in his core that spawns most of his migraines and heaving spells, but it seems to tie up the overarching aura that everything is his fault. Laura dropping the ham, Steve missing out on so much of his life staying home with him, the lives lost at the other end of his gun…

 

“Oh, Sweetie, none of it was your fault,” Laura says. Bucky’s mind is racing too far ahead to be sure exactly what she’s talking about, but the sentient works.

 

His mind brings up _I know, but still…_ and somehow, through several sniffs and a load of gravel in his throat he manages to vocalize that.

 

Laura keeps up a stream of logical sympathies, and waves Clint away when he appears in the doorway with a _what’s going on?_ expression.

 

Bucky sobs, then hiccups, and Laura politely asks before wrapping him in her arms and promising the maximum dose of Excedrin as soon as he gets something on his stomach.

 

“Thank you…so much,” Bucky mumbles into her sweater.

 

“Of course. We all care about you, you know,” she whispers back.

 

The first time Bucky actually talks about his feelings, he ends up delaying Barton family dinner by 45 minutes.


	9. Memorial Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's demons nearly get the better of him, but Steve and Sam are there to help him through. This is a remix of Wait for tomorrow, now from Steve's POV.
> 
> *extra trigger warning for self harm/suicidal thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is probably my most popular topic, so hopefully I'm not about to ruin it here.

 

The Friday before Memorial Day weekend, Steve walks through the door with the distinct feeling that something’s not right.  The doormat’s kind of askew, which, if it means Bucky’s been coming and going, is actually a  _good_  thing, but it feels like an indicator of issues deeper within. 

 

There’s a plastic cup, still wet, in the sink like it’s been dropped.  Steve expects to see Bucky’s tired, anxious body slumped on the couch, but he’s not there.  It’s more unusual for him to spend time upstairs, but that’s where Steve checks next. 

 

The bedroom door is closed, and that can’t be a good sign.  “Buck?” Steve calls quietly as he turns the knob and presses the door open.

 

Bucky’s standing between the bed and the window, this body visibly trembling, and there’s a gun in his hand, the muzzle lost in his hair.

 

“Buck,” Steve gasps quietly.  He half-reaches one hand out and steps forward, keeping the corner of the bed between them. 

 

Bucky’s face looks grey.  His eyes are red and wet, his nose is running, and his lips glisten and twitch.

 

“Hey,” Steve says, turning his palms down to make a calming gesture.  “Hey…”

 

Bucky just blinks and swallows, his hand shaking on the gun’s trigger.

 

God, this is hard.  Sam’s given Steve a casual low-down on talking folks with PTSD down from self-harm situations.   _Just try not to say anything triggering_.  Steve’s still iffy on what Bucky’s triggers actually are, so he’s not sure he can say anything.  “Can, uh…?”

 

Steve takes a breath and starts again.  “Buck.  Not today.  Not today, ok?”

 

Bucky stares at him.  Shakes his head a fraction of an inch.  Looks like he’s going to pass out.

 

“Yeah,” Steve whispers.  “It…it’s bad today.  And that’s just, it just happens.  But that doesn’t mean it’sgonna be bad tomorrow.  It might not be any better, but you…there should at least be a chance to find out.”

 

He can hear Bucky breathing.  It sounds wet and cloggy and desparate.

 

“Buck…” Steve murmurs.

 

The gun tumbles from his hand.  Steve’s sprinting around the edge of the bed before it hits the floor. Bucky doesn’t look like he’s going to stay upright much longer, and Steve wraps him in his arms. 

 

Bucky’s limp, and Steve just whispers the first thing he can think of.  “It’s ok.  You’re ok.”

 

The moment of silence seems interminable, but finally Bucky shudders against him in a heaving sob.

 

“I love you so much.”  It doesn’t matter that it’s the first time Steve’s said it out loud.  It only matters that he’s felt it for years, it’s been on the tip of his tongue since Bucky came back, and it’s about damn time he told Bucky because for fuck’s sake he deserves to know.

 

Bucky shuffles and mutters something into Steve’s henly.  Steve feels the vibrations more than he hears the words.

 

“Hm?”  He moves his shoulder so Bucky’s mouth isn’t covered.

 

Bucky stutters, swallows, and softly wallops Steve with his right hand before he starts gagging.

 

“Come on,” Steve encourages, beyond caring that there’s already vomit on his shoulder.  He gets Bucky into the bathroom and holds his hand as he heaves.  He’s shaking and sputtering and coughing long after he’s expelled everything in his stomach, and Steve does his best to whisper that it’s ok and alright and he’s safe…

 

Bucky collapses into Steve’s chest, and Steve just holds him, running fingers through his hair and breathing deeply, trying to be the rock Bucky so plainly needs.

 

Then he starts apologizing.  Talking makes Bucky cough, but he chokes out “I’m sorry,” until he’s just crying, sobbing, wracking his body into Steve, and yanking at his own hair.

 

“Breathe,” Steve reminds him, trying not to let tears fall from his own eyes.  He lays his fingers on the outside of Bucky’s fist and feels a slight shift in the cadence of his inhales and exhales.  “Good.  Keep breathing.”

 

Once Bucky’s dissolved into tremors, Steve sees to getting him settled.  It’s clear Bucky feels insurmountably sick, and his skin seems hot to Steve.  Another fever is the last thing Bucky needs. 

 

Steve cleans him up and supports Bucky to bed.  He strips him of his jeans and finally gazes into his glistening eyes.  Bucky starts to cry again, and Steve holds him until Bucky sways under his grip, and Steve gets him lying down.

 

“Give me one second,” Steve says, bolting around the bed to pick up the gun that he’s all but forgotten about.  He secures it in the garage where hopefully Bucky won’t look for it before Steve can think of a way to get rid of it.  Then he calls Sam.  Mostly to reassure himself.  Also because they’re out of sports drinks.  Steve doesn’t tell Sam any details, other than that Bucky’s sick and dehydrated and Steve could use some backup.

 

Back in the bedroom, Bucky’s dry heaving again, and Steve tries to calm him down.  He changes into pajamas and slides into bed to soothe Bucky until Sam arrives.

 

“Are…are you g-gonna t-tell…?”  Bucky whispers through his spasming jaw.  

 

God, how to even start…  “I…I don’t want to have to tell anyone,” Steve says.  His voice quivers as he grapples with the maelstrom of emotion he simultaneously wants to hide from and share with Bucky. “Buck, you can’t…I just love you so much.”

 

“Love you t-too…” Bucky whispers through a sob.

 

Steve strokes his arm and tries to tell him it’s going to be ok.  This time, though, Steve’s a little less sure.

 

When Sam arrives with provisions, Steve leaves Bucky in bed and heads downstairs to meet him.  He barely elaborates when Sam asks about Bucky, saying he’s panicky and nauseous, which he is, among other things.  Sam nods, semi-relates in his amazingly calm demeanor, and advises Gatorade.  Steve takes the beverage upstairs as Sam settles on the couch to flip channels.

 

Bucky gets about a half cup of fluid into his system before his body threatens mutiny again.  Steve brings him the trash can, and Bucky gags, but miraculously manages to keep everything down.

 

At least he does until a few hours later, when he’s waking from a nightmare.  Steve jerks out of his own doze when Bucky accidentally hits him in the face, and he’s still struggling into consciousness when Bucky vomits Gatorade all over the bed and the trash can. 

 

Sam appears, and helpfully gets Bucky back into the bathroom while Steve ascertains that his nose isn’t broken, it just smarts.

 

Steve has to count Bucky off to get him to breathe, then hold him until he settles.  He finally gets Bucky to consent to have his temperature taken, and it’s no surprise that the pesky fever is back to do more damage.

 

Sam’s presence, though awkward in such a tender moment, is helpful.  He starts changing the sheets while Steve sets Bucky up in the shower.  The routine’s surprisingly efficient, and within the hour, they’re gathered at the kitchen table drinking tea and munching toast. 

 

They end up playing Uno until 2am when Bucky starts to slouch and slide into sleep right there at the table.

 

The first time Bucky’s anxiety pushes him to hurt himself, he’s glad he has Steve there to remind him that if he does it, he’s not the only one who will regret it.


	10. Summer Solstice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's depressed. Steve might be a ray of sunshine.

The morning of Summer Solstice, Bucky doesn’t stir when Steve’s alarm goes off.  The routine of late has been for him to get up and start breakfast before Steve kisses him and heads off for work.  Today, though, Bucky’s overtaken with the feeling that he just really doesn’t want to.  He hasn’t exactly been asleep for the last hour or so; he’s having trouble mustering the energy even to turn over and face Steve and say good morning.

 

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, stroking the back of Bucky’s head.  “’Morning, babe.”

 

Bucky doesn’t reply.  Steve also stays silent for a moment.  Then, “You ok?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says in an emotionless voice. 

 

“You sure?”

 

“Hm.”

 

“You feeling alright?” Steve asks.

 

And Bucky doesn’t know what to say.  He feels fine in the sense that he doesn’t feel bad, but this emptiness is new and weird and unsettling, and it’s not fine.  Except that…it kind of is.

 

“Babe?”  Steve’s been, if anything, a little more overwhelmingly attentive and helpful since they clobbered their romance back together.  It’s part annoying and part sweet and part lifesaving, and Bucky doesn’t know how to deal with it today.  He’s not sure how to deal with himself today.

 

“Tired,” Bucky sighs.

 

“Hm.”  Steve shifts his hand to rub Bucky’s back.  “You slept through the night.  Well, I think you did.”

 

Bucky stays quiet.

 

“You feel like breakfast?  I can get some eggs on,” Steve offers.

 

Bucky sighs.  “Not…not really.”

 

“You sure you feel ok?”

 

Bucky shrugs under the sheets.  “Fine.”

 

“Do you want me to call in?  Stay home with you?”

 

“No.”

 

Steve sighs, hugs him, and rolls out of bed.  Bucky doesn’t exactly track Steve as he flits from the closet to the bathroom, getting ready and still occasionally asking questions. 

 

“Do you want me to bring you up a magazine?”

 

“No.”  Bucky belatedly adds, “Thanks.”

 

“Hey, if you need anything, even something little, call me.  Please.  Call me.”  Steve squats in front of Bucky’s side of the bed and kisses his temple.  “I’ll be home around 5.  But, call me.”

 

“Ok,” Bucky says, already knowing he’s not going to call. 

 

Steve disappears downstairs, and Bucky hears him open and close the fridge a few times and grab crinkly-wrapped granola bars from the pantry before he bangs the front door shut and revs his bike in the driveway.

 

It’s oppressively quiet in the house.  Bucky rolls to the center of the bed and burrows face-down with his pillow against one ear and Steve’s against the other.  He actually sleeps for a while.

 

When Bucky wakes again, the sun has moved significantly.  He’s not motivated to look at the clock, but he guesses it’s maybe early afternoon.  Bucky shuts his eyes again and lets his thoughts turn on.  He’s not sad.  He’s not angry.  He’s always feeling guilty, but it’s not as oppressive as it usually is when he panics. 

 

Bucky doesn’t feel anything.  He thinks he ought to feel a little bad for worrying Steve, but he just…doesn’t.  It’s like the emotional area of his brain is suddenly numb, doped up on Cepacol and out of the office.

 

There’s something wrong, but he doesn’t feel like something’s wrong, and that has to mean something’s wrong.  But… still.  Bucky goes through the cycle two or three hundred times and is shocked when he next glances out the window and sees the sun is edging toward its evening position.  He’s lost a whole day to…nothing.  And that’s a whole lot more disconcerting than the nothing.

 

Steve’ll be home soon, and Bucky thinks he ought to spend a couple hours out of bed if he’s going to sleep tonight.  He sits up in his nest of sheets and yanks his T-shirt over his head.  It’s caught on his stump arm, but Bucky manages to dislodge it by the time he’s stumbled to the bathroom.  He drops his sweats outside the shower and turns on the water. 

 

Bucky stands under the spray, internally telling himself he’ll grab the shampoo in a minute…which turns into about 10 minutes.

 

There’s the sound of knuckles lightly rapping on the open door.  “Hey, Buck?”

 

Bucky peers around the edge of the shower curtain and sees Steve leaning suavely against the doorframe, smiling. 

 

Bucky maintains eye contact, but doesn’t say anything.  He’s still empty, and confused about why he’s empty, but something about how Steve’s looking at him is just…is so…

 

Steve yanks his shirt over his head.  He’s still smiling at Bucky.  He unbuttons his khakis and pauses on the zipper.  “Could you, maybe, use some company in there?”

 

Bucky bites his lips from the inside because he doesn’t feel like he should be smiling back.  He nods.

 

The first time Steve and Bucky make love against the dripping tile wall of the shower, Bucky lets himself feel amazing for that whole short while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cepacol is that type of cough drop that numbs your throat makes you feel disgusting.


	11. Fourth of July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fireworks are not good for those with PTSD. This is a remix of Stay with me, we'll take the night. Now predominantly from Bucky's POV.

On Steve’s birthday, Bucky’s desperate to be normal.  He wants to give Steve one day to celebrate and not be dragged down with Bucky’s problems. 

 

They’d arranged to have a barbecue.  Nothing crazy, just their little circle of friends gathered at the townhouse for hamburgers and hotdogs and the view of the fireworks display on the National Mall. Though from their distance, it would be more like the view of a postage stamp.

 

Steve keeps saying kind things like __you don’t have to__ , and Bucky keeps saying that he’s fine.  He’s well aware that, really, he’s not, but that’s beside the point.  Bucky’s been feeling alright physically.  The nightmares are no more or less than usual.  He hasn’t had a panic attack since May.  When Sam gave him the brief low-down on depression, he’d said it’s common.  It happens to a lot of people.  And it probably doesn’t keep them from hosting birthday parties for their significant others.

 

Steve’s taken off on his bike to pick up provisions from the grocery store, and Bucky’s making himself lunch.  He spreads mayonnaise and mustard on bread, carefully lines up turkey slices, and adds a piece of iceberg lettuce.  Bucky assembles the sandwich and cuts it in half before washing the knife and giving the kitchen a tidy.  Finally, he takes his plate to the table to munch while he re-reads the article on Egyptian mummies he’s bookmarked in his newly-subscribed Smithsonian magazine.

 

Bucky only gets through half his sandwich before a headache starts stealing his appetite and screwing his concentration.  He’s peering at a photograph of hieroglyphics from the inner walls of one of the pyramids, but somehow his mind’s showing him visions of busy Arabic-speaking marketplace folks falling at the end of his rifle.  And the sound…it’s as if he’s right there, hearing the shots and feeling the recoil. 

 

But, no.  He’s in the townhouse.  Eating lunch.  Reading his magazine. 

 

Bucky’s not hungry anymore.  He takes his plate to the counter and digs in the drawer for a roll of cling wrap.  He tears off a sheet with hands that are starting to shake and is halfway to draping it over the sandwich remnants when Bucky’s mind fires him another gunshot and he jerks to one side, the plastic sticking to itself and becoming useless. 

 

He’s opening the cupboard under the sink, but can’t remember why.  Then Bucky reaches for the radio, but he doesn’t know the number for the station he wants.  His head’s throbbing and his vision’s blurry and he’s not sure how he makes it to the couch, but it’s a relief to have the soft upholstery under his face.

 

Eventually, there’s the sound of the front door scraping open.  The rustling of plastic bags.  The fridge opening and closing.  Then, Steve’s voice.  “Buck?”

 

Bucky exhales loudly by way of response.

 

Steve’s footsteps approach, and he murmurs, “Hey.”  Bucky can feel his hand hovering millimeters from his own fingers.  “Can I touch you?” Steve whispers.

 

Bucky breathes out again to give consent.

 

“Ok,” Steve rubs his back.  “You’re safe, ok?  You’re with me.”

 

Feeling somewhat grounded, Bucky rolls to face Steve and squint at him.  It seems a lot brighter in the living room than it was when he first lay down.

 

“Hey,” Steve says.

 

“Hey,” Bucky echoes, trying not to let pain leach into his voice.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“Head fucking hurts,” Bucky says.  “And I keep hearing shit…”

 

“Aw, babe,” Steve whispers sympathetically.  “It’s the kids across the street.  They’re shooting off their fireworks already.  Probably breaking a million city ordinances…”

 

“Yeah, I figured,” Bucky says.  Internally, he’s raising his eyebrows with sudden comprehension.  He’d forgotten that people…do that.  He doesn’t want to sound stupid, so he says the first (stupid) thing that comes to mind.  “I think I broke the radio.”

 

Steve looks back to the kitchen.  “It might be ok,” he says.  “The tuner’s just knocked off, I think.  Were you looking for your station?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters.  “Every station’s playing fucking Justin Bieber.”  It’s his standby joke for why he prefers classic rock to pop hits.  He’s not actually sure what the speakers are spitting under the fuzz.

 

Steve laughs, but it’s drowned out with another sizzling boom.

 

Bucky curls into a fetal position, trying to discern whether the sound came from outside or inside his head.

 

“It’s ok,” Steve soothes.  “It’s those damn asshole kids.”

 

Bucky nods and keeps his eyes shut.

 

“Do you still want your music?  Or would that bother your head?”

 

“Yeah.  Music,” Bucky grunts out.  That’ll give him something to focus on.

 

“Ok, I’ll get the radio fixed up here…”  Steve pats his shoulder.

 

A few seconds later, Patty Smyth is filling the room.

 

_Shootin at the walls of heartache_

_Bang, bang_

_I am the warrior…_

 

“This ok?” Steve asks

 

“Fine,” Bucky says.

 

A second later, “Can I put this away?  Your lunch?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky answers.  “Cling wrap’s broken too.”

 

He lays there, slightly dazed, mentally repeating each word of the song to keep himself focused on something he knows is real.

 

Then Steve’s back beside him.  “Hey, Buck, we don’t have to do this.”

 

“Hm?”

 

Steve sighs.  Explains it could be better to cancel the party.

 

“No,” Bucky says, propping himself up on his stump arm.  “It’s your birthday.  I’m gonna be fine.”  His head throbs, and he scrubs his hand over his eyebrows.

 

“Hey, if you’re not feeling good—“

 

“I’ll be fine.”  Bucky comes up to a seated position and slouches into the couch cushions.  “We’ve got time.”  He squints at the clock, but he can’t read the numbers, so he flicks his gaze out the window instead. 

 

Another loud pop sounds, and Bucky feels the color drain from his face as pain and nausea solidify into a lump in his throat.  “Yeah, maybe I’ll just go to bed for a while.”  He gets unsteadily to his feet and heads for the stairs.

 

“Can I get you anything?  Excedrin?” Steve asks.

 

“No, just keep on, whatever you’re…” He loses his train of thought.  “I’ll be fine.”

 

Bucky closes the bedroom door and flops onto the mattress, curling onto his side and burying his face in Steve’s pillow.

 

Maybe he sleeps for a while, but Bucky can’t be sure.  He does know that the next time he’s aware, he’s struggling to flee.  He’s under fire, he can hear the enemy gunshots, and somehow he’s weaponless…

 

Bucky pushes the window open, pops out the screen, and parkours his way down the dusty white siding to the ground below.  He dashes behind a bank of bushes for cover and tries to decide whether the desire to run or vomit is more urgent.

 

 _ _I need to go back home.  Back to Steve__ , Bucky thinks.  But then suddenly he’s in the park and all the Frisbee-playing dads look like enemy operatives, so he gives in to the distraction and jumps a fence to take cover.  But then he’s in somebody’s yard, and he has to jump the fence again, and by that time he’s so fucking dizzy he has to sit down on the edge of the sidewalk until he hears another loud noise and the cycle starts again.

 

It’s almost dark when Bucky finally can’t go on anymore.  He's standing in the vacant lot beside a strip of stores and restaurants, holding the wall of the pizza place and puking into the dirt, almost blind and completely concussed.  He’s about to fall (and probably lose consciousness) when all of a sudden there’s a little high-pitched voice bobbing around his waist and interfering with his hallucinations. 

 

“Are you sick?  Are you ok?  What’s wrong with you?”

 

But Bucky’s got the song stuck in his head, over the backbeat of explosions…

 

_Shootin at the walls of heartache…_

 

“Do you need a doctor?”

 

_Bang, bang…_

 

“Does your arm hurt?”

 

_I am the warrior…_

 

What was the question?  “No, my fucking head…”  Wait, he’s not supposed to cuss around kids.  Is this a kid?

 

“Is that why you barfed?”  Definitely a kid.

 

 _God, how do you explain a goddamn migraine to a kid?_   It turns out, you don’t.  “Yeah,” Bucky croaks, jamming his thumb into his eye as if that will actually bring his vision back.

 

Somebody’s yelling.  Bucky cringes.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“James.” 

 

Somebody else is yelling.

 

_I am the warrior…_

 

No, somebody’s talking.  He missed something.  “Huh?”

 

“Are you a homeless vet?” the kid asks.

 

Bucky doesn’t get it.  He inches his head around to look at her, but he can only get a silhouette.  She repeats herself, and Bucky cobbles together an answer.  “No.  Well, kind of.  I have a home.”  He really feels like he’s going to throw up again.

 

“You should go home,” she suggests.

 

“Yeah, well…” It turns into a muddled explanation of the birthday party and Steve and…things.  Bucky's sensitive about his relationship, but to the little girl, blissfully growing up in post Obergefell v. Hodges America, everything seems fine.

 

Another explosion sounds, and Bucky cowers under his arm.  "Jesus...Fuck."

 

"It's just a firework," the little girl informs.  

 

Bucky's overwhelmed with relief that she can hear it too.  "God, I know.  But it hurts.  Makes me remember bad shit.  Stuff."  It's painfully obvious he doesn't know how to behave around kids.

 

"Like, war?" the girl asks.  She rattles off an incomplete list of different historical military events, none of which captures Bucky's past.  But, the sentiment and baseline knowledge are definitely there.

 

Bucky nods.  

 

Then she pipes up again, but more somber this time.  "Is that how you lost your arm?"

 

Bucky can feel her hovering inches from his stump shoulder, and in a burst of confused inspiration, he says, "You can touch it."

 

He half expects her to recoil and run away.  But the little girl softly runs her fingers down the sleeve of Bucky's T-shirt and across the scarred flesh beneath.  Then they stay quiet for a few minutes.

 

Bucky can hear running footsteps.  Evacuating civilians?  Advancing enemies?  Bucky raises his head and peels his aura-stricken eyes open to see a couple of kids, maybe a little older than the girl, running around with sparklers.  He suddenly remembers Steve's explanation of "asshole kids with fireworks" from earlier, and Bucky's torn between _oh, them_ and _maybe they're not so bad_.

 

The kid follows Bucky's gaze and explains that they're her brothers.  Then she asks, "What's your boyfriend's name?"

 

Bucky tells her.

 

"Does he love you?"  This is getting profound.

 

"Yeah..."

 

"With one arm?"

 

"...Yeah..."

 

"Then he's gonna love you even though you got sick on his birthday."  

 

It's so lame and cute and perfect that Bucky almost laughs when he says, "Yeah.  I know."

 

The big brothers are yelling at their sister again, trying to get her to come light a sparkler.  Bucky tries to shake her off, tells her to go play.

 

She goes for a moment, but then she's back with a sparkler for Bucky as well.

 

They watch the goldish sparks fly in the early darkness.  Then Bucky hears, from a ways down the sidewalk, "Buck!"

 

It's Steve.  He's there in a second, and Bucky gives the girl his sparkler so he can stand up and stumble into Steve's chest.

 

Steve makes sure he's ok, then holds Bucky while he calls Sam.  Bucky remembers again that they have houseguests.  Shit.

 

Bucky tries to apologize, and the little girl tries to explain to Steve all of what's happened, and then Sam and Nat and Clint and Laura and Tony and Pepper and seemingly everyone Bucky knows is gathered around him saying soothing things and patting him on the back.  Laura manages to grab Bucky by the shoulders, feel his temperature, and force him to admit he still feels like shit.  She makes him sit down, take Excedrin, and drink some water.

 

They all sit in the dirt, like they're around a nonexistent campfire, and giggle at nothing for a while.

 

Then the booming starts up again, but it's more muted and distant.  Like rolling thunder.  It's the fireworks display on the National Mall, tiny and far away from their suburb.  Steve pats Bucky's shoulder and asks him if he needs to go home.

 

Bucky does, but not right away.  He wants to watch the show.  And wish Steve a happy birthday.

 

The first time Bucky and Steve host a party, they end up sitting in a vacant lot late into the night.  And they can't say it's completely not enjoyable.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obergefell v. Hodges is the Supreme Court Case that legalized gay marriage in all 50 US states in June of 2015.


	12. Labor Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's having a hard time seeing Bucky still so down.

When Steve gets home from work the Friday before Labor Day weekend, he sighs almost as soon as he opens the front door.  Through the entryway, he can see Bucky's disheveled hair against the couch cushions, and he can hear some miscellaneous animal show on TV.  He unlaces his boots and sets down his work bag, then heads into the living room.

 

Bucky looks a little dazed, and he doesn't look at Steve right away when he sits on the couch beside him.  "Belugas," Steve comments on the whales shown on the TV screen.  "Nice."

 

And whales are nice; there's nothing wrong with whales.  Except that Steve'd thought Bucky had moved beyond that.  In May and June, he'd started slowly checking into classic movies on Netflix.  While Steve still feels like a life defined by TV shows is a life that still needs help, he'd been really happy with the progress.  Coming home to black-and-white Humphrey Bogart or Marilyn Monroe was nice.  It meant Bucky was enjoying dialogue and following storylines. But by August and now into September, Bucky's been back to almost all nature programs, which Steve knows means he's not bothered to pay attention anymore.

 

Bucky looks at Steve and nods.

 

"How're you feeling?"  He can't stop himself from asking.  He hopes Bucky knows he cares about anything and everything he's feeling, physical, emotional, and everything in between.  Steve doesn't ask because he's a micromanager; he asks because he wants to know and he wants to help fix it.

 

"Fine," Bucky says.  "Head hurts a little.  I don't know."

 

"Do you want a painkiller?  Some water?"

 

"No."

 

Bucky never does, unless he's feeling really awful.  Steve internally sighs.  He asks, "Anything in particular you want for dinner?"  He doesn't ask _have you eaten anything today?_ Judging by the lack of dishes in the sink and wrappers on the coffee table, he can guess the answer.

 

Bucky shrugs.  

 

"Ok," Steve says.  This is challenging.  It's hard to come home every night and see the love of his life sinking deeper and deeper into the corner of the couch, looking less and less inclined to eat or shower or...do anything.  Feel anything.  

 

They've talked about depression.  Sam gave Bucky and Steve separate spiels sometime back in June or July when the funk started to set in.  Bucky acknowledges that he's depressed.  But besides trying and mostly failing at pushing down his demons, Bucky hasn't been motivated to do anything about it.  Steve knows it's extremely symptomatic of the brain chemistry imbalance that produces depression.  But that doesn't make dealing with it any easier.  Maybe it's time for something else.

 

"Buck," Steve says, patting his knee.  "I know you...haven't been feeling really good lately."  Better qualify that so Bucky knows he's talking mental, not physical.  "I mean, like, you haven't been feeling like yourself."  Steve mentally smacks himself, since that really didn't hit the mark either.  Bucky probably hasn't been feeling comfortable in his own skin since the war.  "God, I mean...You're down.  You've been down for a few months.  You've been doing so much to get better, but..." _Yeah, go on and make him feel bad about himself, because that's a GREAT idea..._

 

"Yeah," Bucky says.  

 

Steve's surprised and relieved that they're on the same page.  "Ok, that's...You know I love you.  You know nothing you do is ever gonna make me stop loving you.  I want you to be happy.  I want you to feel good."

 

"How?" Bucky asks.

 

Steve takes a breath.  "Well, I'm not completely sure."  Medication and therapy are certainly appealing options from Steve's perspective, but he doesn't think Bucky will be able to handle the concepts.  "We could change up your routine, get you some different things to do.  I'll have time off around the holidays, but before that... you could take a class.  Or maybe get a job."

 

"I can't...I don't..." Bucky mutters, pushing into his forehead with the pads of his fingers.  

 

Steve gets up and brings him some ibuprofen.  "You don't have to do anything right now.  But just thinking about it is going to get you started."

 

"I'm sorry I'm...not good."  Bucky swallows the pills and doesn't look at Steve.

 

"No, you're fine.  It's ok to not be all great all the time."  Steve sits back down and opens his arms so Bucky can lean into him.  He closes the embrace.

 

"I'll...start thinking about it." Bucky murmurs.

 

Steve kisses the top of his head.

 

The first time they talk about Bucky getting a job, it's awkward and anxiety-inducing.  But it's half the battle fought and won.

 

 


	13. Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets a job. And a migraine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, things might get a little hinky here. I really just wanted to insert another recognizable character, so I reinvented Darcy a little. I know that kind of makes this chapter really AU, but I think everything I made up broadly fits in with MCU standard, it's just a little far fetched. So, still Powers/No Powers. Just weird.
> 
> Also, this is a dramatization of things that have really happened to me at work. It sucks.

Bucky’s first day of work is the day before Halloween.  It took a few days after broaching the topic of a job with Steve to broach it with Sam, and all of two minutes after broaching it with Sam for him to offer Bucky a position at the VA, but it’s taken the better stretch of two months for Bucky accept and choose a start date.

 

If Bucky remembered his first day of kindergarten, he thinks he’d remember something like this morning.  Steve irons Bucky’s favorite flannel shirt and packs him a lunch and so many snacks that he doesn’t think he’ll be hungry enough or have time in his 4 to 6 hour workday to consume them all. 

 

Sam comes by at 8:30 to pick him up.  Bucky doesn’t make it out of the bathroom until 8:33 because he’s quashing anxiety under the guise of trying one-handedly to pull his hair into a ponytail.  Luckily, Steve’s there to rescue him from the hair elastic and pour Sam a cup of coffee so everyone’s pretty much satisfied.  Sam and Bucky are on the road by 8:45.

 

“You’ll have flex hours,” Sam explains as they pull into the VA staff lot.  “So you can come in at any time you want as long as you make 20 hours in a week.  You can do 5 days of 4 hours, or 2 days of 8 and a 4, or whatever works in your schedule.  And your start time doesn’t matter.  I can keep picking you up, or Steve can drop you off, or if you feel like walking or someday you’re driving yourself…whatever works.”

 

It’s already a lot of information to process.

 

Sam leads Bucky down a maze of hallways.  Bucky’s grateful it’s away from the hospital-y wing and toward a more office-y area. 

 

“Here you are,” Sam says, pushing open a door decorated with a large paper pumpkin.  “The billing office.”

 

There’s a waiting area with two pink upholstered chairs and an end table with several outdated magazines.  Behind a long counter sits a young woman in her 20s, and beyond that, Bucky can see several drab grey cubicles.

 

“Hey Darcy,” Sam says.  “This is James.”  They’d agreed beforehand that Bucky wanted to try going by his given name.

 

“Oh, hey,” Darcy says.  “I’ll get him set up.”  She smiles at Bucky.  “Come on back.  We got 4 part-time billers, but it looks like you’re the only one home today.”

 

She opens a swinging door at the end of the counter and escorts Bucky and Sam back into the cubicles.  They stop outside the end cube, which has a nameplate reading “JAMES” clipped to the dingy fabric.  “This is you,” Darcy says.  “You can decorate or whatever.  If you want.”

 

“Hm,” Bucky says.  He sets his backpack, which is filled mostly with snacks, on the desk beside the rather outdated computer monitor.

 

“You ready to get started in the system, or do you wanna walk around a little bit more first?” Darcy asks. 

 

“Um…”  Bucky doesn’t know.

 

“I just ask ‘cause everyone’s pretty different in how they like to attack a new job.  How about I get you logged in, and you let me know if you want to break for a tour.”  Darcy steps back to her desk to wheel her swivel chair into Bucky’s cubicle.

 

“You’re doing good,” Sam reassures.  “I’ll hang out for a little bit.  But you’ll be fine with her.  She’s nice.”

 

Bucky sits at the computer and follows Darcy’s directions to log onto the computer and access the timekeeping system, then the billing system.  He nods at Sam when he slides out of the cube, feeling at least somewhat settled and in control.

 

“It’s a lot of clicking, and a little typing.”  Darcy glances at his stump arm and gracefully balances her looking before it becomes staring.  “Being a biller, it’s not that hard, but the pay’s so good because your real job is to keep confidentiality.  It’s all vets looking out for vets here, so that’s not really that hard either,” Darcy says.

 

“You’re a vet?” Bucky asks, not meaning it to come out so candidly.

 

“Yeah, I know I don’t really look the part.”  Darcy adjusts her glasses.  “I enlisted out of high school and did one tour.  Got injured, got discharged, now I’m going to college and doing this on the side.  Cause it pays better than my old internship.  Billing is cool except if you want to talk to people, so that’s why I do the desk instead of hanging back here.  You probably think I’m weird, but I like answering the phone.”

 

“Oh,” is what Bucky drudges up for a response.

 

She stays by his side for another 20 minutes, showing him how to take electronic paperwork and use it to fill out more electronic paperwork, match diagnosis codes, check names and addresses, and finally submit documents for filing.  It seems tedious, but manageable. 

 

“I think you pretty much got it,” Darcy says.  “I’ll leave you to it.  Unless you want to go for a walk?”

 

Bucky shakes his head. 

 

“Ok.  The tour’s not all that.  It’s really just a trip to the breakroom.  And the only thing cool about that place is the coffee.”  She continues, “So, just press on, I guess.  Ask questions if you have them.  Or if your monitor goes trippy, I know how to hit it so it goes back to normal.”

 

Bucky doesn’t ask what that means.  He just nods.

 

“Oh, and there are jolly ranchers under the counter if you want some.”  Darcy points to her station.

 

Bucky nods again as she retreats, and turns his attention to the new claim form on his screen.  He blinks hard to try to mitigate the glare of the fluorescent lights against his computer screen.

 

He makes it through that form and the next two before his head starts aching.  It begins as the normal shake-it-off kind of headache that usually means nothing more than too much coffee or not enough coffee or it’s cloudy or it’s Tuesday, but within half an hour, it’s progressed to the start of a migraine.

 

Bucky pushes his keyboard back and rests his forehead on the edge of the desk.  He can’t remember what he put in his backpack.  There might be Excedrin somewhere among the sandwiches and granola bars.  Bucky doesn’t really want to raise his head to check.  Aura’s creeping in behind his eye and edging out his peripheral vision with white light.

 

The phone rings, and Darcy’s clipped voice answers it.  “Fuck,” Bucky mutters as the sound ratchets up the pain toward sickening nausea.  His forehead and right temple are throbbing  _so badly_.

 

Darcy hangs up the phone, and something plastic crinkles.  “James?  You want some candy?” she calls.

 

Bucky doesn’t want to open his mouth to answer.  He’d rather just crawl under the desk and curl up and die, but that doesn’t seem appropriate for his first day on the job.  He ends up having to stick his head under the desk, though, and heave into his small trashcan.  And it’s just his luck that Darcy’s rounding the edge of his cube to offer candy just as he gags up his breakfast. 

 

The bag of jolly ranchers hits the floor, and Darcy says, “Oh my god, ok, hold on a sec, let me call Sam.”

 

Bucky’s heart throbs in his sinuses and he retches again.  After a few seconds, or maybe a few years, footsteps sprint up behind him.  Sam’s on his knees at Bucky’s shoulder.  “Ok, man, you’re good, you’re good.”

 

Sam walks him to the bathroom as soon as Bucky’s stomach’s settled enough for him to stand up.  The vertigo’s still thrumming so strongly he can barely walk a straight line.  Bucky steps into the single stall and leaves the door open, squatting in front of the toilet to heave some more.  Sam puts a hand lightly on his back and quietly asks, “You got words for how you’re feeling?”

 

Bucky can’t convince his throat to come out of contraction, so he just spits into the toilet.

 

“It’s ok if you don’t…”

 

“Is…huh…’s a migraine…” Bucky breathes, stopping to hiccup.

 

“Alright, alright.  You tell me when you’re ready to go home,” Sam says.

 

“I feel so…god, ah, fuck…” Bucky dry heaves one last time and sinks back against the wall of the stall.  His face is pure white and sweat beads on his temples and upper lip.

 

“Yeah, I know you don’t feel good.  It’s your first day here, you’re probably all wound up…”

 

“Sorry,” Bucky chokes out.

 

“No, it’s fine,” Sam insists.  “Dude, it’s the VA.  Don’t you go thinking you’re the only guy that’s ever had a tough first day.”

 

It takes Bucky another few minutes to calm down and feel ready to ride in the car.  Sam retrieves Bucky’s backpack, lends him some sunglasses, and leads him out to the parking lot. 

 

It’s by sheer willpower that Bucky manages not to be sick in Sam’s car.  The second they’re in the front door of the townhouse, he trips off to the downstairs bathroom.  When he emerges, paler and shakier and sweatier than before, Sam pushes him to the couch and serves up lukewarm water and painkillers.

 

When Bucky next opens his eyes, Steve is home from work, and Sam’s at the kitchen table, on his fifth back issue of Nat Geo.  Gatorade and Ritz crackers are open on the counter, and Bucky feels famished under his lingering nausea. 

 

He meanders into the kitchen and sits beside Sam.  Steve brings the snacks over and pauses to wrap his arm over Bucky’s shoulders.  Bucky leans forward to press his face into Steve’s chest, and Steve tightens the embrace.

 

Sam finishes reading his magazine, snags a handful of crackers, and takes his leave.  “You don’t have to come back to work tomorrow if you’re still not feeling great,” he says to Bucky.  “Take as many days as you need.”

 

Bucky gets back to work on November first. When he gets to his cubicle, Sam and Darcy are screwing lightbulbs into a few desk lamps and cheap torchiers.

 

The first time Bucky makes it through his scheduled workday, it’s many thanks to the support of his friends.


	14. Veterans' Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky attempts therapy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laura Barton <3
> 
> This one is probably my fave in the whole 15.

On Veterans’ Day, Sam brings up the idea of therapy.  He and Bucky are sitting in the car while Steve runs into the pizza place to pick up their order.  Bucky angles his shoulders more sharply toward the window, away from where Sam’s sitting behind the wheel and going on with the standard _it’s tough and it feels lame at first, but it might really help._

 

“Level with me, here,” Sam says.  “You’ve been home for almost a year.  Away from war longer than that.  And you’ve gotten so much better, but there’s still stuff to deal with, stuff Steve’s not equipped for.”

 

He’s so right, and that’s what’s making Bucky feel so wrong. 

 

“You could just go to one appointment and see how it goes,” Sam says.  “It’s ok if you’re not ready.  But, I think maybe you are ready.”

 

Bucky wants to say no, but he also doesn’t, so he says, “Fuck.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam sighs.  “Dude, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through or how you’re feeling.  But I kind of had a similar reaction when I came back.  I was coping.  You’re coping right now.  I just think we can help you thrive.”

 

“Huh.”  It’s not agreement or disagreement, just acknowledgement.

 

“I can make you an appointment, right at the VA.  I can go with you.  Steve can go with you.  Or Nat or whoever you want.  You can go by yourself.  Whatever works.”

 

Bucky sees Steve exiting the restaurant with two huge white boxes, and he’s suddenly having a feeling that maybe Steve asked Sam to bring this up, and he doesn’t want to be around for the debrief.  Bucky opens his door and gets to his feet.  “I’ll, uh, I’ll walk home,” he says.

 

“Hey, what’s—no, it’s ok,” Steve tries to mitigate as he hefts the boxes and drops them in the backseat. 

 

“I’m fine,” Bucky tonelessly reassures.  “…Get some air.  See you at home.”  He cuts across the vacant lot beside the pizza place and starts sprinting back toward the townhouse.

 

He manages to get back before the car does, and Bucky lets himself in.  He collapses in a chair at the kitchen table and plays with the button at the cuff of his empty left sleeve. 

 

Therapy.  He’s not some 13-year-old girl with anorexia.  He’s not some weirdo who fucks sheep or anything.  He’s not having relationship issues (his relationship is probably the one thing that isn’t giving him issues).  So why does he need therapy?  What kind of therapy is going to explain and fix why he’s good with combat but afraid of the ice cube tray and glazed ham?

 

But Steve thinks it’s good.  Sam thinks it’s good.  The fucking VA thinks it’s good.  Apparently “everyone” flips out at the first mention of therapy.  So Bucky’s no better than “everyone.”  And that’s good, right?

 

Bucky reminds himself for the hundredth time that Steve’s never hurt him.  Steve will never hurt him.  Sam won’t hurt him.  So maybe therapy won’t hurt him either.

 

When Steve and Sam come in with the pizzas, Bucky says, “Ok.  I’ll…I’ll have an appointment.”

 

Sam jumps on the VA website and books Bucky an hour with a therapist for the next day at 10:30.  “Do you want me to pick you up?”

 

Bucky’s hesitant to answer.  “Um, actually, um… Can maybe…Laura take me?”

 

“She might be busy, Buck,” Steve says logically, remarkably unbothered by the way Bucky’s requesting Clint’s wife over his own partner to accompany him to the appointment.

 

“I’ll call her,” Sam says.  And he does. 

 

Laura is available.  The kids will be in school, and she can drive over from Paris and make it plenty before 10:30. 

 

Bucky, Steve, and Sam all breathe a sigh of relief as they tuck into their pizza, knowing that half the battle’s been won.

 

They tackle the second half the next morning.  Steve and Sam both head to work as usual, so Bucky’s home alone and pacing when Laura rings the doorbell at 9:45. 

 

“Hey, sweetie,” she greets him, reaching in for a hug.

 

“Hi.”  Bucky’s beyond nervous. 

 

“We got some time, wanna go get a donut?”  Laura offers.  “Don’t tell Clint or the kids; they’ll be pissed.”

 

Bucky doesn’t answer, but they get in the car and drive to Dunkin Donuts anyway.  Bucky claims a booth while Laura buys two coffees and two maple glazes.  The caffeine and sugar help quash the headache, and Laura’s slow-paced chatter about the kids and the house and the weather help the anxiety. 

 

They’re back in the car by 10:15, and Laura has them at the VA by 10:25.  They’re on the point of entering the elevator to the mental health wing when suddenly Bucky decides he’s changed his mind; he doesn’t want to be there anymore. 

 

Laura squeezes his shoulders, tells him it’s ok, and then sprints with him to the men’s bathroom when the donut starts to come back up. 

 

She leans against the closed stall door while Bucky heaves into the toilet, then sits with him on the bathroom floor until the shaking and gasping is down to a minimum.  At 10:44, she asks, “Do you want me to take you home?  Or should we go give this a shot?”

 

“I don’t…I can’t…” Bucky breathes.

 

“How about we go try.  Just try.  ‘S all you have to do.”

 

Bucky takes a huge inhale.  “Ok.”

 

They end up 20 minutes late for Bucky’s 50-minute appointment, but the receptionist doesn’t seem to mind.  She’s completely unfazed by Bucky’s pale, sweaty face and the way he’s shaking too badly to hold the pen and sign himself in.  Laura signs him in, and within sixty seconds, they’re escorted around the counter and into an office decorated with soothing sailboat paintings and two couches facing each other.

 

“Are you James?” the middle-aged doctor asks.

 

“Hm.  Yeah,” Bucky replies.

 

“And this is…?” the doc gestures at Laura.

 

“My friend Laura,” Bucky murmurs, then presses his fist to his mouth to stifle a hiccup.

 

“I’m Dr. Smith.”  Then, “You feeling ok, James?”

 

Bucky feels like he could vomit again, but he knows he has to be empty.  He flashes a glance at Laura, who flicks her gaze to Dr. Smith.  She gives a tiny shake of her head.

 

“It’s ok,” the doc says, standing up to grab a trashcan from the corner.  “It’s your first time.  You’d probably be surprised at how often this happens.  No big deal.”

 

Dr. Smith chats with Laura for a moment while Bucky dry heaves, then they proceed.  “So, James, besides your stomach bothering you, how are you feeling?  What are your emotions saying?”

 

The words sound corny, but the way the doc stays so calm and straightforward makes it work.  Bucky hugs his knees up to his chest and gets sideways on the couch so he’s face-to-face with Laura.  He tells her how he’s terrified and confused and desperate to be better and so horrendously guilty all the fucking time…

 

Dr. Smith takes notes.  Occasionally asks questions.  And finally books Bucky an appointment for next week.  Laura immediately offers to drive.

 

The first time Bucky goes to therapy, he realizes he does feel a lot better once he lets it all out.


	15. Thanksgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything might be ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wraps it up. Sorry this is another really short one.

On Thanksgiving Day, Bucky snaps from sleep at 2:30 in the morning.  He’s in so much pain he can barely think, so he shout-groans a string of curses as he clumsily stumbles out of bed and collides with the bathroom doorframe.

 

“Fuck,” Bucky spits through gritted teeth.  He braces himself on the wall and extends his right leg behind him, the calf cramp coming down from agonizing to merely painful.

 

“What’s—you ok?  You sick?”  Steve’s dragging half the blankets out of bed with him as he exits the bed, not quite able to see Bucky in the dark. 

 

“No,” Bucky breathes.  “’S a fucking charley horse.  God, it hurts.”

 

Steve finds Bucky’s elbow and traces his way up to squeeze Bucky’s shoulder.  “Think you need to up your potassium?”

 

“I don’t like bananas,” Bucky mutters.

 

“Other stuff has potassium,” Steve says.  “Kiwi, I think.  And avocadoes.  Potato skins?  Maybe?”

 

“Weird.”  Bucky hefts his weight to deepen the stretch in his leg.  “God.”  What’s making it sear like his muscle is wrapped around a hot pitchfork?

 

“Want me to try to rub it out?” Steve offers.

 

“You can try,” Bucky says, backing into the wall and sliding down it so he’s seated on the floor.  Steve sits too and shoves the leg of Bucky’s sweats up to his knee.  He palpates the tight muscle of Bucky’s calf until a sharp intake of breath lets him know he’s found the cramp.

 

“We’ll have to add massages to our list of things to do at 3am,” Steve says.  “I’d say it definitely ranks above Sudoku.”  Bucky appreciates the joke, but feels slightly bad that his issues have pushed them to this routine.

 

“Sorry I, uh, woke you up,” Bucky says.  He feels like he expresses this sentiment often, but he’s usually so out of it with nightmares that he’s not sure he’s actually vocalized it very much.

 

“Hey, you know it’s fine,” Steve says, pressing into the knot in Bucky’s muscle.  “I’m actually kind of glad to be awake.  I was having a really weird dream…”

 

“Was it…a, uh, nightmare?” Bucky asks, not quite sure how to deal with this potential role reversal. 

 

“No, it was just weird.  Sort of uncomfortable.” 

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“Well, it’s gonna sound really funny now,” Steve says.  “You know that house behind the vacant lot, the one with the fence?”

 

Bucky’s not sure Steve sees his nod in the dark, so he adds, “The one with the dog?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”  Steve changes his grip to press into the other side of Bucky’s calf.  “That dog is so annoying, you know, when you jog past it, it won’t stop barking and growling.  So in my dream, I’ve got this bucket of ping pong balls, and I’m just, like, leaning over the fence, pelting the dog…”  He mimes throwing a small ball with one hand.  “And it’s not hurting him, just really riling him up.  And then the dude who lives there comes into the yard and starts yelling at me…It was just…really uncomfortable.”

 

Bucky tries not to laugh.  After five seconds, he’s snorting into his palm. 

 

Steve joins him, laughing at the pure stupidity of it now that he’s not experiencing it. 

 

“That’s a good one,” Bucky says.  “Well, not good,” he backtracks, “I mean…if it was…stressful, but…” He still doesn’t exactly have the words to express himself.  What he means is it’s wonderful for Steve, and maybe someday for him, to have the ability to feel something bad and anxiety-inducing and then look at it differently later and realize maybe it wasn’t so bad and have a good laugh and move on, remembering it __that__ way instead of the way it first came through.

 

Bucky fails at exactly voicing his thoughts, but Steve gets it.  At least, Bucky thinks he does.  Steve’s working the massage up Bucky’s leg so it’s becoming something else entirely. 

 

By 4 in the morning, they’re still on the bedroom floor.  They’re both stretched out, though, and various articles of clothing are discarded around them. 

 

“So, you still feeling good about driving over to Paris for another family get-together?” Steve asks. 

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says.  His anxiety level’s plateaued so low that he’s not sure he’s ever felt better about anything.  “We should cook something.  Take it over.  Like, our contribution.”  Bucky wraps his arm around Steve’s chest and buries his face in his shoulder.  “Maybe something with potato skins.”

 

“Huh?”  Steve says as he smooths Bucky’s hair.

 

“’Cause I need more potassium, punk,” Bucky says.

 

The first time Bucky wakes Steve in the middle of the night for something other than a nightmare, he realizes that maybe everything is ok.  And if it’s not right now, it’s certainly going to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, I'm down to one idea, and it's a bit of a recycle. Reqs would be great. Posts might slow down a lot or stop for a while as the fall schedule kicks in. The school year starts around the second week of August where I live, so "fall" means basically the 2nd half of summer all the way to about Christmas.


End file.
